the present is a gift, etc blah blah
People, I find, are little concerned with the present: we spend our time either regretting the past or laying plans for the future. Recollection and anticipation fill almost all our moments. Yesterday I walked down to the village center thinking of past lovers, and walked back home thinking of what I would read when I got back. A curse, that we are thus primed for the fleeting present, rarely realizing how quickly the present turns into the very past we covet, and how quickly the future dwindles, in spite of all the plans we make for it.
But here in the mountains, solitude and time conspire to rejuvenate my present. Something about waking to early morning stillness, the day stretching before me all the way to sunset, knowing the time is all mine, and mine alone - past and future unfocus, relegated to the periphery. Suddenly I find myself taking the greatest pleasure in the smallest things: making the perfect cup of tea, the gentle crack of an eggshell against the counter edge, the studious kneading of the dishcloth into the plate. Inhale: bread browning to toast, crumpets toasted brown. The way fresh raspberry jam glints white in morning sunlight. The curtains open to mist and lazy mountains purple with distance. Even pages turn differently here, the flick of each sheet crisper in the cavernous quiet.
In the city the background intrudes so much I can barely hear myself think. Here it's so quiet I can almost hear other people think.
And I like it, the quietude, the solace, the way each minute curls warmly around me before dissipating. This was my mother, sending me here for the weekend: "We shouldn't encourage this," she sighed, "she's already such a loner." Alas.
Anyway, I'm back now, to an enormous backlog of mail. More synchronized travels, too.